The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (31 page)

"He yet lives," she said, and with those words, Margaret clasped her hands together and held her breath.

Returning her attention to the marten, Sara felt along the tiny limbs. Though she was hardly an expert, she could find nothing amiss there. But on the top of its head she felt a slight bump. God only knew if that could cause this unconsciousness. And God wasn't telling.

"Here," said Sara. "Feel this bump."

But the girl stayed where she was, just out of reach.

"Did he have it before?"

No answer. But her eyes had gone wider still.

What to do for a bump on a weasel's head? Sara had no idea, but in that moment she had an image of Sir Boden in the bathing tub. He was surrounded by floating herbs, his dark skin slick and wet. Sweet mist filled the air. Pleasure filled her soul.

Margaret shuffled her feet, bringing Sara abruptly back to the present. Twas no time to think of that one night of perfection, and yet... the herbs! They seemed like a panacea, and thus, she retrieved a small bottle, filled it with water, and dropped a tiny pinch of herbs into it. She then dabbed a bit of the tonic onto the bump and legs. Then, prying the mouth open, she dripped a droplet onto its tongue.

When Sara glanced up, she saw that Margaret looked skeptical at best. And who would not be?

There should be something more. And so, reaching under her gown, Sara tore off a bit of her kirtle to act as a bandage. The rodent had no wounds to bind up, and yet, if she wished to win the child's trust, it seemed wise to show some visible proof that she was trying.

So she wrapped the white linen about the creature's long, flaccid body and sat back on her heels.

"What—" began Boden, stepping into the clearing.

Margaret started then lunged forward to snatch up the weasel and pull it to her narrow chest.

Slowly, without moving her gaze from Boden, she backed away.

"What's the matter with her?" Boden asked, his voice deep, his brows cliffed over his eyes.

"She is afraid," Sara said.

"Of me?" he asked. The surprise in his voice almost made her want to laugh.

"Ye are, after all, a fierce knight," she reminded him.

He lowered his gaze to hers and for a moment she could think of nothing but touching him, for he was very close and the memories of a warm bath and a steam-filled room still filled her mind.

"Aye," he said quietly. "That I am. But surely she does not have to look at me as if—"

Something jumped from the woods. Sir Boden wheeled about, crouched low, legs braced, empty arms spread wide.

But it was only Tilly, sounding disgruntled as she looked about the clearing.

"Damn!" Boden stopped short of putting his hand to his chest to check the damage done to his heart. "That goat's truer than a hound."

Spotting Mettle beside the mare, Tilly trotted over and placed herself resolutely between the two.

Sara turned her gaze back to Margaret. The child was backing slowly away, ready to bolt into the underbrush.

"I'm not guaranteeing my ability to catch her again should she flee," Boden said softly.

"She's only a small child," Sara murmured.

"I've a hole in my leg," he grumbled. "And she's faster than she looks. Besides, she bites."

"But you're a knight, trained—"

"Hmmph," said Boden, then louder, "I suppose the weasel will require your medicine again soon, Lady Sara?"

It took Sara a moment to realize his ploy, but then she agreed. "Aye. He will need another dose by morning at the latest if he is to recover completely."

The girl stopped in her tracks, then, after a moment of deliberation, hunkered down half hidden behind a hazel bush. And as if she could will herself to be invisible, she became almost so.

"All right then," Boden said, turning away. "I'll make the fire and cook the venison."

"Nay." Sara turned toward him, aware that the child remained, silently debating whether to flee or stay. But either the talk of medicine or food kept her rooted to the spot. "Ye rest," she said.

"Please. You're wounded."

"And the babe will soon wake. He'll be quite put out if you have no milk for him," Boden said.

"Tis debatable whether I'd rather lose my leg or listen to him squawk." As if by magic, Thomas squawked at that second.

Despite everything, the fear, the fatigue, the worry, Sara smiled. "Twill only take me a short while to milk the goat. Ye rest."

He touched her face, his fingertips light against her cheek. "And of course ye are not tired, are ye, lady?"

"Not so very."

"And you lie poorly. Take care of the babes," he said and turned away.

Tilly was more recalcitrant than ever. But finally, after much fuss, she let down her milk, while Sara collected it in the usual kettle. After filling the bladder, nothing was heard from Thomas for some time as he nursed.

After a few tries, Boden managed to start a fire. He then cut up the venison and retrieved the bottle of ale he had taken from the inn. From the other pouch, he took a shallow wooden bowl into which he sloshed a good deal of the potent liquid. Striding back to the fire, he set it beside Sara.

"Drink it," he ordered, and turned back to the meat. Still Margaret crouched nearly out of sight as the sun disappeared behind the last treetop.

Finally, Thomas fell asleep, his peeked lips parting as his head drooped against Sara's chest.

She lifted him gently and laid him on a blanket in a deep bed of green mosses.

The sweet aroma of cooking meat wafted up from the cookfire.

"She must be hungry." Boden's voice was low, and though he didn't raise his gaze from the venison he was cutting and placing on a rock near his feet, it was clear he was speaking of Margaret.

"Aye," Sara said, also not turning toward the girl. "But mayhap her fear of pain is greater than her fear of hunger."

There was silence for a moment, but for the crackle of fire.

Sara frowned into the flames. "When I think of what the child has endured I—"

"Don't," Boden said, interrupting her sharply. "Don't think about it. She's free from it now."

Sara raised her gaze to his, and wished with sudden intensity that she could wrap him in her arms.

He turned resolutely away. "I'll have to think of a new name for you. Saint Sara doesn't seem to apply any longer. Who taught you how to swing a kettle like that?" he asked, not looking at her.

In the firelight, his dark features gleamed. His hair was blue black and tied away from the strong, sharp angles of his face, his hands looked magical, and his eyes, deep as hope, entranced her.

But she couldn't love him. There were repercussions. There were sins. Even if her actions didn't adversely affect her, she had to think of Boden and his life after she was gone. She closed her eyes for a moment and forced her mind away from her ravaging thoughts.

"Do ye think I killed her?" she whispered. "Margaret's mother?"

Boden flicked his gaze to the shadow that hid in the shadows. By the fire's fickle light she could see a muscle flex in his jaw. "I hope so," he said.

Their gazes caught again. "Will she ever forgive me?"

"Tis impossible to know what damage has been done to the child, Sara. Don't hope for too much. Even you can't force her to trust."

Silence settled in. But after a while there was a rustle of sound, then a small hiss from the hazel bush. Sara glanced up, and in a second, a tiny, bandaged slice of fur darted through the grass and attacked a piece of venison.

Margaret was close behind. But, in a moment she skidded to a halt, her eyes wild, her hair a mass of tangles about her head.

Not a soul moved.

The weasel growled and gnawed noisily at the venison.

Boden lifted his gaze to the child's as he nodded to the cooked meat. "Tis better hot."

She licked her lips, but dared not advance.

Boden turned his gaze to the snarling weasel that wrestled with his food. "You must have given him the same herbs you gave me, Lady Sara. I, too, was ravenous."

Despite Margaret's presence, Sara felt herself blush, for she well remembered Boden's appetite in the tub. Still, she wasn't such a fool as to misunderstand the reason for his words.

He was attempting to make the girl relax, and in time, mayhap, the child would realize they meant her no harm.

"The marten looks well," Boden continued as he slipped a piece of venison from the skewer. '

'Tis too bad the girl doesn't eat." Waiting a moment, he tasted a bit of meat. "Soon she'll grow too weak to care for him."

This Sir Blackblade had a devious mind, Sara thought.

"Aye," she agreed. "The weasel needs his medicine again, and he'll trust none but her."

Though Boden's expression remained unchanged, there was a light in his eyes, and that light mesmerized her. She loved him. Beyond a doubt. She loved him, and the knowledge made her ache.

Lifting the spit from above the fire again, Boden slipped a browned piece of venison onto a small slab of board before handing it to Sara, who approached Margaret.

The girl backed away, but Sara only bent and placed the board on the ground.

"Your friend needs ye strong to administer his medicine in the morning," she said, and returned to the fire.

There Sara sat on a small log with her back to the child as she gazed into the blaze. "Did she take it?" she asked, keeping her voice soft.

"Not yet."

"Do ye think she will?"

For a moment, Boden didn't speak, then, "Hunger is a strong motivator," he said, bringing her another piece of meat.

"As is loneliness," she said, looking up.

Longing snapped between them. She ached to go to him, but she couldn't afford for him to know it, and so she turned her thoughts aside and lowered her gaze. "Do ye think she will try to return to her mother?"

"When
you
are near?" His gaze hadn't shifted from her face. She could feel his warm attention as he watched her. "She doesn't look daft to me."

"What—" she began, but the heat of his eyes stopped her words.

"Only a dolt would leave you by choice," he said.

Sara searched for an appropriate comment, but just then Tilly's entrance into the firelight gave her an excuse to look away. The nanny bleated as she turned her head from side to side, sniffing, walking with that strange jerky movement of the goat.

From behind her, Sara sensed more than heard Margaret snatch the meat and slip silently back into hiding.

"What shall we do now?" she asked.

Taking several more slabs of meat from the spit, Boden piled them on a board and handed them to Sara. "Eat," he said and turned to scowl into the woods. "But hold fast to your herbs lest she decide to treat the rodent herself. Then get some sleep."

"Do ye think tis safe?"

"Tis one thing I've learned for certain since meeting you," he said. "Nothing is safe."

Boden had left their small camp long ago. Firelight had a tendency to draw his eyes and his thoughts, and he needed to patrol the area. Though the woods were very dark, he felt reasonably certain the dark wizard was not nearby, for he could feel no evil. So he settled his back against the trunk of a stout tree. Not far away, he heard Mettle grazing. He'd removed the charger's bridle and head armor, but for emergency's sake, the saddle was still in place. Near him, the undernourished mare tore off grasses.

Past that, Boden could see or hear little. But they were out there—the wizard, the brigands, the juggler, all of them searching for Sara. But why?

He was in far over his head. Never had he planned to become so involved. Twas supposed to be a simple mission. Return Lord Haldane's spoiled mistress and child to the fold. Naught else.

But the mistress was dead, and the child was firmly held in the arms of the woman called Sara.

Her name flowed through his mind like a soft summer breeze. She was sunshine and laughter, softness and hope. And yet, when cornered, this woman who was like heaven in his arms, had the courage of a tiger.

His eyes fell closed. He would be a fool to let her go. And yet what else could he do? Without his knighthood, he was nothing, and he would surely lose even that if he crossed Haldane. All he could hope for was these moments with her. To feel the warmth of her presence, the sweet touch of her kindness, the dulcet melody of her voice like sun-ripened— "Boden."

He awoke with a start.

"Sara!"

"My apologies." She was there, so near him, her oval face pierced by her sky-blue eyes. "I did not mean to frighten ye."

"Nay. I am a knight," he said. His tone was breathless. She smiled.

Pain lanced his heart. Damn Haldane.

"The children," he said, trying to think, to keep his hands at his sides. "They are well?"

"They are well," she said. "But Tilly is acting strangely."

He rose to his feet. "And that seems unusual to you?"

"Well..." she began, but just then the goat tottered into view.

Her bleat sounded odd and she held her head at a peculiar angle.

"What happened to her?"

"I dunna know," Sara said. "I was sleeping when I heard her stumbling about."

"Do you suppose she ate something poisonous?" Boden asked. Reaching out a hand, he approached the nanny slowly, but there was little need for his caution, for their past misunderstandings seemed to have been forgiven. The goat stood in a stupor.

Boden touched her neck, then ran his hand across the bumps of her ribs and onto her belly. "Did you see her eat anything?"

"She eats everything," Sara said, wringing her hands.

"Then mayhap..." he began, but just then Tilly turned toward him and burped.

Boden reared back at the onslaught of her breath, blinking for a moment. "Sara?"

"Aye?"

"Did you drink the ale I gave you?"

"Nay. I forgot it."

Boden nodded. "And the goat found it."

Tilly belched again, sending him another wave of fermented breath. He grimaced and turned away.

"I dunna know if I should be relieved or worried," Sara said.

Boden straightened. "It looks as if Thomas will have his first taste of ale."